


Twilight Confessions

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: Exequies [2]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:00:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: You never know who might show up when you're sitting alone in a church.





	

Frank sat staring at the altar of the church. It had taken most of his energy to get everyone to go away and leave him alone. _One good thing about a church; if you say you want to stay and look for comfort, most people believe you; but I can hear Vince's voice asking, "Frank, the last time you were in a church, you got shot—you really feel comforted here?"_

"No, I don't. Not at all. But if you go home because you want to be alone, people think they have to do something. They wonder if they can find where you keep your gun and take it without you noticing, and they check your medicine cabinet for pills and razor blades. It's a pain in the ass. I'd rather sit here and have somebody shoot me again than go through that."

 _No, it's not comforting. It's lonely, so I'm talking to myself. This isn't my church, for one thing—and I never got the kind of comfort from the religious trappings that Vince does._ "Difference between Italian Catholic and Irish Catholic, maybe." _This's Vince's church, where he'd been coming since childhood, where he saw his brother say Mass, where he said goodbye to his brother and who knew how many other relatives. It was the right place for his memorial service, but it's the wrong place for me to find—_

"What the hell am I looking for, anyway? Comfort? How do you get comfort knowing your friend is gone and you can't get him back? This is worse than death—with death I could tell myself at least he's at peace, he's happy, he's with God—would I believe that?" He thought about it. "No. But at least he wouldn't be in pain. It would be over."

"Have you completely lost your mind?" The voice came from the shadows by the confessional and Frank looked over slowly. At first he couldn't see anyone; then, a man moving toward him—familiar and alien at the same time—

"Well, maybe I have," Frank answered quietly. _What else could you say to a ghost?_

Sonny Steelgrave sat down next to him. "Sitting in church talking to yourself." He sounded disgusted.

"You have a better suggestion?"

"Why weren't you looking out for him better?"

Frank looked at Steelgrave in disbelief. "Hey, sport, I threw myself off a moving airplane—I nearly got myself killed, what more do you want?"

One eloquent look was the response.

"Yeah, well, how would that help?"

"I'd feel better. And it would keep you from doing **stupid** things like you did today."

Frank tried to think exactly what he'd done that day. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Whaddaya mean, you don't know what I'm talking about? What do you call getting up in public and announcing he's a fed—smart? You don't believe he's dead any more than I do, why would you pin a target on him like that?"

Frank could feel the fury radiating off him, and an urge to slug Steelgrave came over him, but really, talking to a dead guy was one thing—having a fight with one in a church was another entirely. "It was his mother's idea."

"His mother's." This seemed to draw a blank. "What do you mean?"

"She wanted his name publicly cleared."

"But she doesn't believe he's dead—you don't have a memorial Mass for someone you believe's dead—how could can she believe he's alive but deliberately turn him into a target like this when we get him back? How could she possibly not realize that's what she's doing—the woman's married to **Rudy Aiuppo,** for God's sake! I don't get it."

"He's retired," Frank said tiredly. These angry, pointed questions were beginning to feel like a cross-examination.

Steelgrave's look was withering. "Right."

Frank shrugged.

Steelgrave seemed speechless, too many ideas coming into his head at once, unable to turn any of them into a coherent sentence. "Doesn't she realize how many people he pissed off on the Commission? Gina Grossett alone would track him to the ends of the earth—that woman's a viper—"

"Maybe that's what she's hoping for; somebody pissed off enough will be able to find him; maybe we should keep an eye on Mrs. Grossett and a few other people, see what they do when this gets out."

Steelgrave looked at him for a moment. "Are you drunk?" he asked finally.

"No, but it's a thought."

The door opening startled them both; for a second the backlight blinded Frank, then he recognized Amber. She came in, blinking at the darkness. "Frank?"

They had both stood up, and now as she came toward them, Frank instinctively shifted to shield Steelgrave from her sight.

"I thought you weren't coming." He tried to soften his tone; her phone call to him had been filled with pain and silence, and he knew she was hurting too.

"I—I'm sorry—"

Frank stepped into the aisle, assuming Steelgrave would turn the other way, but no, he could feel the other man right behind him. "It's all right." _She's holding herself together through sheer willpower._ He wanted to put his arms around her, comfort her, but there was nothing left to give her. "It's all right," he said again.

Steelgrave was standing next to Frank, looking at Amber, and Amber looked at Frank questioningly. Frank shot him a look—you couldn't leave well enough alone? and struggled to come up with an introduction. "Amber Twine, this is—" **Dammit, help me out here—**

"Salvatore Terranova. Sono un parente di Vincenzo. Non siamo collegati strettamente, ma siamo vicini." [See notes for translation]

Amber offered her hand. "È molto piacevole venirli a contatto, il sig. Terranova." 

_Italian?!_ Frank thought in agitation. _Jesus Christ, that's all I need right now._

"Parlate italiano?" Steelgrave sounded surprised.

"Poco; non molto più di questo. Capisco che più dell' parlarmi."

"Lo parlate in modo bello. Migliorare che il mio inglese."

"Grazie. Vinnie was surprised—" She closed her eyes, but the tears came anyway; Steelgrave went to her, put his arm around her, led her to a pew to sit down.

"Are you staying with Mr. and Mrs. Aiuppo?" she asked.

"No, là era una certa anima difettosa di alcuni anni prima. Neppure non sanno che sono qui." He took her face in his hands, brought her eyes up to look at him. "Dovete avere fede. Sapete che non è guasto e sarà tutto il di destra."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Devo. Se lo amate, non avete scelta."

"Things didn't work out between us but, yes, I do love him, lo amo—I'm sorry—I have to go—I didn't mean to come here and cry; I didn't want to cry anymore—non ho desiderato cry più."

Steelgrave gave her his handkerchief. "Piangere fino a che non riteniate più meglio, ma non dare in su sperano."

She stood up and hurried from the church. "What the hell did you say to her?" Frank asked.

"I made a date to meet her later—what do you **think** I said to her?" 

"Mr. McPike?" The priest's voice, as he stepped out of the sacristy.

"Yes, Father?" He could feel Steelgrave turning away.

"I was just about to lock up." No apology, just a tactful way of telling him to leave.

"We'll be going." They walked down the aisle and out of the church.

"I remember when churches were always unlocked," Steelgrave muttered, and Frank looked at him.

"Those days are long gone. Now you need an appointment to see God." _I should—something. Arrest him. Walk away. I should do something—_ He couldn't explain how he felt, couldn't understand it, didn't want to look at it—did not want it to end— _of course, this is suspended animation—as long as I stay here with this piece of Vince's past, nothing since then has happened; Vince's safe and I can breathe._ He wondered if Steelgrave felt the same thing. "There's a bar up the street—Lynch's." That was it, as close to an invitation as he was going to go, take it or leave it. He started up the street, Steelgrave walking next to him.

The got a table in the back; dark, but still, it felt too open, too public, too many people coming in after getting off work. _If someone saw us—what? What would they see? If they recognized him—it would look like some sort of collusion—_

They drank their drinks in uneasy silence, Frank's eyes scanning the room every second, until finally Steelgrave said, "Fuck this, you're making me feel like I'm in a shooting gallery." He stood up, dropped a ten on the table, and walked over to the bar. 

Frank watched him exchange what looked like two bills for two bottles and walk out the door. He got up from the table and followed. "They sell packaged liquor?"

"They do if you know how to ask." They walked back toward St. Dismis's until Steelgrave stopped at a black Alfa Romeo. Steelgrave handed him the bag with the bottles and unlocked the passenger side, walked around to unlock his own door.

Frank looked at the car, something tickling his memory.

"You getting in?" Steelgrave asked and Frank pushed away the memory and got in.

"Nice car." Deliberate, with no inflection.

"I like nice cars," Steelgrave responded, also with no inflection. _Not here, not now_ hummed in the air.

It was an act of silent collusion, the two of them driving around looking for—something, until at last Frank knew what it was.

"Go to sixteen-fifty-eight Ocean Road."

A swift look— _was the truce being broken?_ "There is no such address."

Frank waved his hand. "Approximate it."

They got out of the car, looked around. The beach was beautifully deserted, the water was choppy, the wind warm and cool and biting. _Warmer than the last time I was at this spot._ Steelgrave hopped up on the warm hood of the car and after handing him the bottles, Frank joined him.

"Why the fuck aren't you out looking for him?" Quiet rage filled the question.

Frank knew that rage intimately; it lived in his blood. He pulled a bottle from the bag and checked the label—Irish whiskey, very expensive brand. Opened it and took a slug. "Out where? Looking where? I tracked the plane he was probably on as far as El Salvador. The guys who grabbed him came back in body bags. The guys responsible are protected by the CIA. What do you propose I do, get on a plane and start combing the jungle for him? And even if I were to stumble across him, you got any idea what kind of people we're up against? I don't think I'd get very far alone up against drug cartels and the CIA. I have done what I can do—I have done things I never would have believed I could do—and believe me, I was damn alone— And while the idea of single-handedly charging the ramparts appeals to me on a certain level, I can also see where it would be counter-productive, not to mention getting me killed."

"Counter-productive," Steelgrave sneered. "In other words, you're more concerned with saving your own skin."

Irritation flared at this shot, but the welcome of shared anger kept it from growing to more than that. "I've got a call in to somebody who might be able to help and who I'm sure won't give me the get-on-with-your-life song and dance." He took another long drink. "And if you're so damn anxious that there be a martyr to this cause, why don't you get on a plane and go down there and apply for the position? But I'll warn you right now, you're up against the CIA propaganda machine, who turns priests and federal agents into gun-runners when it suits their needs, so the death of one minor-league hood—who's already officially dead—probably won't make a ripple, except maybe in _News of the Weird._ " In spite of himself the anger had come back, and with it a feeling of life. "What the hell happened, anyway? The last time I saw you, you were dead."

"They ought'a revoke your medical license." Frank didn't reply, and finally Steelgrave added, "It's a long story."

"Give me the _Reader's Digest_ version."

Steelgrave drank some from his own bottle. "The last time you saw me, I wasn't dead and I'm still not."

"But officially—"

"Yeah, officially I'm dead. My name's dead."

Oddly, that gave Frank a sense of comfort. _Dead people coming out of the woodwork—first Lococco, now Steelgrave._ He himself had been dead for a few minutes. That somehow brought him back to Pete's funeral and Vince standing in the cemetery, looking as if he'd seen a ghost. What had he said to Frank? _"It's a real car,"_ which hadn't made any sense, but he'd watched the little black sports car until it left the cemetery—

 _Little black sports car?_ Frank looked down at the hood of the car they were sitting on. "This car's black."

Steelgrave was looking at him oddly. "No shit. Got any other startling revelations?"

Frank got down off the car and began walking around it, looking it over. "Same car?"

"Same car as what?"

"As at Pete's funeral." There it was, the Alfa Romeo symbol; Frank remembered seeing it before. He looked at Steelgrave. "You were there; he saw you. What is this, you only do funerals?"

Steelgrave stared straight ahead. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, sure you don't." Frank climbed back up on the car, though for some reason it was more difficult this time. "How much does a car like this cost?"

"I don't know; it's a rental."

"But you could afford one."

"I could afford a dozen."

This self-satisfied answer pissed Frank off to no end.

"Sure, why not? A dozen sports cars—hell, you could buy yourself a plane and fly to El Salvador. Hey, why don't you just buy the whole country, then you can name yourself king and make them turn him over to you. Or if that seems a bit gaudy, maybe you could just buy him from them and keep him for your very own." _I shouldn't drink,_ Frank thought. _I'm not even sure I'm making any sense._

"What the hell did I ever do to you?" There seemed to be genuine hurt and confusion in Steelgrave's voice.

"What?"

"What did I ever do to you? I don't get it. Rudy Aiuppo you treat like family, but I'm _persona non grata._ What gives?"

"Shut up."

"No, really, I wanna know. I've known a lot of cops, I've known a lot of pissed-off cops, but you act like this is personal."

Another long swallow of courage. "You have any idea how badly you fucked up his life? Not only with your pathetic suicide attempt, but with everything that came before it? I spent half my time worrying he was going to ditch the whole program, then afterward—he's never been the same, that's why he snapped in Lynchboro—" _Shut up before you say something really stupid—if you haven't already._

"He was talking about leaving the OCB?" The question came so gently Frank answered without thinking.

"He didn't have to say it, it was in the air every damn time I talked to him, every damn time he told me how much you mattered to him, when he told me he'd do whatever was necessary to save your life—" _That's it, that's enough, just shut up now—_ The bottle was nearly empty. Steelgrave was staring at him. Frank finished the whiskey, tossed the bottle onto the sand, and took a vow of silence.

Steelgrave took another drink. "You're jealous! That's what all this is about, isn't it? Of what? 'Cause him an' me were friends?"

"Friends? Yeah, right, an' that's why you went to his brother's funeral."

"I know what it's like to lose a brother."

"An' that's why you risked getting caught to come to his memorial service."

"What's your point?" Steelgrave's tone was cool.

"My point is there's not much point us lying to each other. I know what he does—I watched him do it for three years. He lies so good he can make you believe the lie even when the truth's staring you in the face. He changes like a chameleon, thanks to that bitch of a mother of his—"

"What—"

"Carlotta Aiuppo, formerly Carlotta Terranova, a woman who could cut off her younger son because he was convicted of running bootleg cigarettes but who can turn around and marry Rudy-fucking-Aiuppo and justify it to herself because he's retired. Queen of the self-serving hypocrites. She's the one made him so good at what he does—he had to learn to be what other people wanted whether it was the truth or not 'cause she'd cut him off if he didn't live up to her perfect-son image. He can seduce anybody, no matter how untouchable they look."

"That's his job, isn't it? To get to people?" Steelgrave returned to his bottle, staring out into the ocean.

There was something of unbearable sadness in his tone, and for a moment Frank couldn't figure out why; his brain felt all fuzzy. Then it hit him and the urge to do nothing was very strong. _We're all in too much pain already._ "Yeah, I guess it is. But **you** were the only one who ever got to **him.** "

Steelgrave looked at him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"You heard me."

Steelgrave studied his own now-empty bottle. "Why're you telling me this stuff?"

Frank considered; there were a million reasons, and only one of them was easy. "I'm drunk as hell." He was, and it felt so much better than sobriety; consequences seemed to go right out the window. "You can't stay out of his life, right? Didn't you ever ask yourself why not?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, right. Try that on someone who hasn't heard the story from the other side." The truth was Vince had never told him a thing; Roger, however, had been very forthcoming—another benefit of too much alcohol, though he wasn't sure Roger had been drunk. "You can lie to yourself, sport, but there's no point lying to me. I know way more about your relationship with him than I want to—"

Steelgrave pushed himself off the car and walked away unsteadily. Frank followed, just as unsteadily, not willing to let this go. "You're not the only one who cares about him, you know, or the only one willing to take risks or go too far—there's a guy in a hot tub in Florida knows all about that, only believe me, his electricity overdose was seriously fatal."

Steelgrave turned to face Frank. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He grabbed hold of Steelgrave's lapels, pulled his face close. "I fucking killed a guy in Florida, after torturing him to get the information I needed—on, off, on, off, until finally he told me everything he had—then it was the final on—leading to the final off, if you get my meaning. I went against everything I believe in to get the information necessary to get him back and it isn't going to make a goddamn bit of difference because in the final analysis, you are always going to be the one in his heart—" He let go, stepped back, realizing he'd stepped over the edge and the fall was a long way down. _I didn't even know I felt like this, and now I've spilled my guts . . . ._ A sincere wish to go out with the tide came over him, but that wasn't going to happen. He didn't break eye contact with Steelgrave as he let go of him.

Steelgrave was looking at him as if he had no idea what language he was speaking. "You get a hard-on for him so you think the whole world does, too—well, that's your problem, not mine—"

"Then you tell me why you can't stay out of his life!"

"I don't have to tell you a damn thing!"

Throwing the punch felt good, until he hit the sand, his head spinning, and found himself looking up at Steelgrave. _Drunker'n I thought; I can't even land a punch._

"You are out of your fucking mind," Steelgrave said, settling himself in the sand.

"Yeah, I am. But are you gonna lie to me an' tell me I'm wrong?"

The silence was long and eloquent, and it made Frank tired. He pushed himself up, his head spinning worse as he got to his feet. "Fine, great, you just stay here in your own little world of denial. I'm going home." 

He was a yard or so away when he heard Steelgrave's voice, softly, "Yeah, fine, you're right—you happy?" Frank just stood there, trying decide what to do. _Yeah, big choice; stay here or walk home drunk._ He looked around at the nearing twilight. _And in the dark._ He sat back down heavily.

Sonny was looking at him in almost bewilderment. "Whaddaya want from me, anyway?"

 _Good question. What do I want?_ He lay back in the sand, watching the stars coming out. "I have no fucking idea."

Sonny laughed, sounding genuinely amused. "I think you're a complete fucking lunatic."

Frank started to say something, but the words faded in mid-sentence as he noticed Steelgrave wasn't listening to him; he was staring up at a point in the sky. Frank looked in the same direction but saw nothing—no moon, no constellation, no bird, plane, or Superman—and then he did see it. It wasn't something in the sky, but the sky itself that had captured Steelgrave's attention; darkening, it had become a shade of blue they both knew intimately.

 _A sign?_ Frank wondered. _Yeah, why, because for a moment the sky's the same color as Vinnie's eyes? I'm sure that at some point the sky's the same color as everybody's eyes, if their eyes are blue._ Still, there was something transfixing about that deep, pure shade, and he watched it, watched it deepen, darken so slowly the changes were virtually indistinguishable, and every change brought the memory of a moment, a mood—he knew every hue of Vince's eyes and knew what each one meant—and so did Sonny. That was a disquieting thought, that they shared this intimacy, it made Frank want to bolt, but not bad enough to do anything. _I don't wanna be lonely,_ Frank thought. _And you don't wanna be lonely._ The night was fully upon them, the mood disturbingly personal, making talking easier. 

"I kept thinking he was nuts, the whole time—he did things nobody in their right mind would do, always willing to take risks you'd have to be crazy to take. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't want to see it; he was so close, he got so close, so close I could feel him with me even when he wasn't there—I never felt closer—still, even knowing, I still feel closer to him than anyone, but I suppose that's part of the act—I don't even know who he is."

I'm an idiot, Frank realized, one clear thought shining through the haze in his brain. _Before I could hate him without even thinking about it; now I'm empathizing with him._ "I've known him all this time and there are a lot of things I don't understand about him." Just say it. "I know a lot of what he does is an act. And I know that an awful lot of that case wasn't an act and that he never got as close to the edge over anyone else."

Silence. "Thanks." A longer silence, then, "So what's with his mother?"

"You know she cut him off after he got arrested. She only started speaking to him again when he told her the truth."

"He told her the truth."

"Yeah, he did. And she took him back. She buffaloed him into buying that marrying Aiuppo was OK because he'd retired—"

"I'd like to have his pension plan," Steelgrave said wistfully.

"Yeah, exactly. It took a while, but I finally worked out that the mother of the year was really a world-class manipulator—not that he knows it. I've seen his records—he was a straight-A student in high school, top of his class at Fordham—-"

"Fordham?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus. I knew he was smart, but—who knew?"

 _You don't really know him, do you?_ Frank felt a flash of sympathy, spiked with pleasure of how much of Vince was his alone. _Better change the subject._ "I'd like to think if my kid started messing up, my first reaction wouldn't be to stop talking to him."

"You got a kid?" Sonny asked, sounding honestly interested, and for the first time Frank began to understand something Vince had told him: _"You think the danger's in the guns, but I know the danger's in the words. It's too easy to make that connection, Frank; it's too easy to feel stuff you don't wanna feel." God, yes, it certainly is, and I've got more than enough good reasons not to._ "Yeah, a son."

"That's nice." And that too, sounded genuine. "How old is he?"

A part of Frank wanted to say it was none of his fucking business, wanted to keep this part of himself to himself, and anyway, how stupid was it, sharing family information with Sonny Steelgrave? But then, Royce's guys had grabbed him at his house—they could as easily have grabbed Drake, and that thought was still enough to send him into a rage—

"What, you can't remember how old your kid is? Or is the information classified?"

"I was thinking about other stuff. He's fourteen."

"Man, I wanted kids bad, a family of my own, someone to—"

Apparently Steelgrave had remembered who **he** was talking to, but it was nice to share this, so Frank, said, "I haven't been home nearly enough, but there is nothing like it. He's a good kid, but I worry about him."

"'Course you do," Sonny agreed. "You should spend more time with him."

 _ **Not** a shot,_ Frank realized with shock and answered automatically, "The only good thing about being forced into a desk job, which I guess beats a padded cell."

Sonny laughed. "Yeah, three years with him would put anybody on the outskirts of sanity. How reliable is this guy?"

A second to switch gears— _what guy?_ Then, _Oh, Roger._ "He's good. He'll stop just short of getting himself killed and he has valuable contacts."

"What's his incentive?"

"Vince."

A short pause, then a laugh. "Of course. Stupid of me to've asked. He's the center of the fucking universe, right?"

And that, too, was too familiar, that resentment of this hopeless devotion that hit and ran and left you for dead.

"How much did he tell you, anyway?" Asked with a studied casualness, and besides wanting to know much Frank knew, he wanted to know how much Vince had betrayed him.

Frank considered it, then owned to the lie. "It wasn't what he told me, it was the way he didn't tell me things, the way he closed up and never talked about it. And then, last year he had a meltdown."

"What?"

 _You shouldn't be doing this fought with who the fuck cares?_ and lost. "Guy out in Seattle stun-gunned himself to death and he went off the deep end and took off." Frank thought of himself on the edge of a meltdown, drunk and ranting at Lococco— _I **shouldn't** drink_ —until finally Lococco had snapped, "Jesus, Frank, why don't you just fuck him and get it out of your system?" The words had shocked him into a realization of how he sounded, but before he could even begin backpedaling, Lococco had added, "It's not like you'd be the first," and Frank knew he wasn't talking about himself.

The feeling of Steelgrave scrutinizing him brought Frank back to reality— _such as it is._ "When he cracked up, it was over you."

"Well," Sonny said softly, "I loved him. I still love him."

Final admission. "So do I."

"I really thought—it really felt like he was mine. I really believed that." Voice so hushed his words were almost subliminal. "He broke my heart."

"Then I'd say you're even."

After that the silence stretched out with a strange peacefulness. Frank wasn't sure if he slept, but he didn't think so; he didn't think Steelgrave slept either. _We're on the same wavelength,_ a thought that disturbed Frank more than anything else about this whole weird encounter—but it comforted him too, too much to do anything but stay close. _I wanna be close to Sonny Steelgrave . . . . I think the next time Paul threatens to have my head examined, I'm gonna let him._ Frank closed his eyes as his mind played over everything that had happened since Vince's abduction, the feeling of isolation that just kept growing every time someone he thought should understand told him to let it go and get on with his life.

"Can you see your life without him?" Sonny's voice seemed to come from inside his head, as if he could read his mind—an idea that made him shiver.

"No."

"Me neither."

Frank opened his eyes. The sky was beginning to get light again. He reached over and touched Sonny's shoulder—a second of chill aloofness, then Frank knew Sonny had opened his eyes and was seeing the same thing he was.

**Author's Note:**

> "Salvatore Terranova. I am a relative of Vincent. We are not closely related, but we are close."
> 
> Amber offered her hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Terranova." 
> 
> Italian?! Frank thought in agitation. Jesus Christ, that's all I need right now.
> 
> "You speak Italian?" Steelgrave sounded surprised.
> 
> "A little, not much more than that. I understand more than I speak."
> 
> "You speak beautifully. Better than my English. "
> 
> "Grazie. Vinnie was surprised—" She closed her eyes, but the tears came anyway; Steelgrave went to her, put his arm around her, led her to a pew to sit down.
> 
> "Are you staying with Mr. and Mrs. Aiuppo?" she asked.
> 
> "No, there was some bad blood a few years back. I do not even know I'm here." He took her face in his hands, brought` her eyes up to look at him. "You have to have faith. You know that is not dead and it will be all right."
> 
> "Do you really believe that?"
> 
> "I have to. If you love him, you have no choice."
> 
> "Things did not work out between us but, yes, I do love him, love him—I'm sorry—I have to go—I didn't mean to come here and cry; I didn't want to cry anymore—I didn't want to cry anymore."
> 
> Steelgrave gave her his handkerchief. "Cry until you feel better, but don't give up hope."


End file.
